Heat
by JackOwens1860
Summary: Heat is set against the backdrop of an August heatwave in Gotham City. During a patrol, Bruce finds Dick's behaviour less than exemplary and punishes him for it. First blaming it on the heat, the next morning the big man discovers the truth for the poor performance and finds himself in an intimate conversation with the boy. Bruce's POV. NEW CHAPTER 08/31/17 - Bruce's POV
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: This story marks the first one-shot I have done in years. This story is set during the middle period of Dick's tenure as Robin, when he is fifteen. It is summer in Gotham City. The heat is making Dick crazy. Bruce is not happy about his conduct during patrol. The teenager's attempts to mend the situation prompt a far more intimate conversation between them, and the real reason for Dick's unprofessional behaviour.**

 **Please tell me what you think.**

 **Enjoy.**

 **Heat**

It is August. Summer is here. And while the additional daylight deters criminal activity, making our jobs easier, it also brings the heat. Despite being eleven in the evening, the temperature is still bordering on eighty degrees. The city is experiencing its usual heatwave. Criminals are understandably scarce. In taking down a pair of would be car thieves in Park Row, we have brought our patrol tally to six. The boy is not happy. My suit employs a cooling system for the summer months: he enjoys no such luxury. His complaining has not stopped since we left the cave two hours ago. It is beginning to grate. I hold my tongue barely when he yells a series of expletives to describe the weather shortly after midnight. When it happens again just before two, I clap him on the back of the head.

"Be professional." I tell him sternly. He glares at me.

"Says the guy walking around in a mobile fridge." The boy pauses to run a forearm across his face. "Can we go home now? This is crazy." I nod my head.

"I think that would be best."

We are on route back to the cave. The boy has turned the AC up as far as it will go. And yet he is still attempting to twist the dial. I admonish him twice for this. His response both times is to cross his arms and sulk in his chair. His behaviour tonight is a sure indicator to bench him until the heat subsides somewhat. I am not prepared to put up with this display for another fortnight, the timescale predicted until the heatwave passes. When we arrive in the cave, I make a point of telling him as much. He immediately tries to absolve himself of blame.

"It's not my fault it's a million degrees outside." He begins, already divested of the majority of his uniform as I exit the armoury in a shirt and slacks. "And if you weren't wearing the tech factory…"

"I would feel the same way?" I say to finish his sentence. He nods.

"Exactly."

"And I would also complain about the heat?"

"Absolutely."

"And yell expletives at the top of my lungs in front of law enforcement professionals during a transfer of personnel…twice?" I check. He flushes slightly at this, but the excuses do not stop.

"It's not me, it's my hormones screwing up my emotions…" I jab a finger in his face to curtail this theory.

"It is you not being professional. It is you letting the weather dictate your attitude to this job."

"I did my job."

"You acted appallingly. Until you get a grip of yourself, I am not willing to take you on patrols. I will overlook any other punishments for your behaviour, but you will not be accompanying me during the next two weeks." I say before turning my back on him and sitting down at the command centre.

"Bruce…"

"I suggest you go to bed now. I do not wish to see you again this evening. Goodnight Dick."

"Fine." I hear him turn and stomp his way back up to the house. Once he is gone, Alfred draws up to my side.

"Are you alright, young man?" He asks me as I bring up the statistical database for August to input tonight's numbers. I let out an irritated sigh.

"That boy forgot himself tonight. The results made me look like a fool for employing him as my partner. It was unacceptable." I say pressing the nine key in the criminals apprehended column. The old man pats me genially on the shoulder.

"I'm sorry your evening was so unpleasant, Sir. You do realise that tomorrow he will feel awful about it, don't you?"

"Yes, of course I do. So he should. But I will not change my mind on the subject. If he knew he was going to react this way to the weather, he should not have accompanied me at all. I gave him the option to stay home for the night. He decided not to. Now he can stay home for the next two weeks. It is barely a punishment at all. He should be thankful." I say saving my work and closing down the system. "I wanted to ground him for it." I rise to my feet and turn to face him. Alfred smiles at me.

"You are remarkably restrained in your parenting style, Master Bruce. It is a far cry from how you would have reacted only a few years ago." The old man says almost admiringly. I groan.

"He is a good boy. He just needs to try harder to control himself. Adolescence is not an excuse for vulgarity, particularly when in public."

"Of course not, Sir. Just remember you were not much better at fifteen than he is. And your tantrums did not just yield abrasive cursing. How many windows did you break?" He says to bring me back to the worse days of my childhood. I was very angry back then without the added pitfalls of hormonal anarchy. The number eventually totalled sixteen. Both of us know this. I had to fit every single one. The old man saw to that. I see his point though.

"Enough. I broke enough to realise I was acting like an idiot." I tell him. He nods in satisfaction.

"Master Dick will realise too. He will learn from this mistake soon enough. He rarely makes one twice."

It is shortly after nine in the morning. Today is Saturday. The heat is still suffocating. I have let the boy sleep in long enough. I am currently outside his bedroom door, nursing a cup of black coffee, my second of the day. I open the door to the sound of a fan set on maximum. When I walk in, I instantly wish I had not. The boy is naked on a stripped mattress. All his bedsheets and pillows lay in a heap on the floor. The fan is positioned less than six inches from his face at the side of the bed. The only mercy to this scenario is the fact he is laid on his side with his legs closed. Nothing is on show. I am about to leave and return much, much later when I spot something on his dresser.

Upon closer inspection, I find it to be a letter addressed to me in his handwriting. I take a measured sip and read it:

 _Dear Bruce,_

 _I want to apologise for my behaviour last night. I was not a good soldier…or human being for that matter. I'm sorry I embarrassed you. I want you to know I understand why you won't take me on patrol with you at the moment. I can't handle the heat. I whine. I complain. I don't really make either of us look good when I'm like that. So I get it._

 _I hope we can work past this really soon and get back to kicking ass for justice._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Richard Grayson (Dick)_

The boy will never be a poet. But at least he is honest and level-headed enough on paper for me to forgive his actions. I take another sip of coffee in returning the letter to the dresser.

"Good enough?" Dick enquires from the bed. I look over and find his eyes are still closed, but he has evidently been awake for some time. I nod whilst moving back over to the bed.

"Satisfactory, yes. Are you getting up today? Perhaps getting dressed today at the very least?" I ask. The boy smiles before opening his eyes to regard me.

"Maybe. Are you going to leave first?" He says teasingly. I offer a small smile.

"I was not planning to stay."

"You could've really punished me, you know." He says a moment later. I nod.

"Yes I could have."

"Why didn't you?"

"Because it would have solved nothing. You know what you did was wrong. You know you will not do it again this year. If you do, I will ground you properly for a month. Clear?" I caution him. He nods.

"Yes, Sir."

"Good boy." I finish my coffee whilst briefly appraising his appearance. "You could use a shave."

"On my face?" He checks. I shake my head. The boy does even have the beginnings of peach fuzz on his face, let alone anything more substantial. He casts his eyes down whilst raising his eyebrows. "Do guys actually do that? I thought it was only for girls." I shake my head again.

"Not anymore. These days, everything needs a trim."

"And you practice what you preach?" He asks. I nod.

"Women appreciate the gesture."

"What makes you think I'm anywhere near getting my pants off in front of the ladies?"

"The empty condom wrappers Alfred found in your jeans whilst doing the laundry." Dick looks shocked by this revelation. He should not be: he leaves his belongings scattered throughout the house like the aftermath of a natural disaster. One could piece together his entire life history with the amount of things on exhibit in the living room. I have known he has been sexually active for at least four months in any case.

"Did we skip a ton of conversations? The last thing we talked about like this was not using socks to…"

"I do recall that conversation quite well, thank you. We do not need lectures for these matters. You are sensible and you are safe. If I had any notion you were otherwise, this dialogue would be awkward." I say to make him frown in bemusement.

"This isn't awkward? You're talking to me about my sex life while I'm naked in bed and you're stood there drinking coffee: how is any part of this not awkward?"

"You have not told me to leave yet. Should I leave?" I check whilst manoeuvring towards the doorway. Dick considers the matter carefully for a few seconds. "No. Actually…no. Just let me get some underwear on." I turn my back and hear him leisurely get off the bed, open his dresser and snap on some boxers. "Okay, you can turn back now." I do so and find him sat on the edge of the mattress. He motions for me to sit beside him. I comply amicably enough. "I never saw this kind of conversation being less than painful between us. I kind of assumed Alfie would be fielding the supplementary Sex Ed classes in this house." He says with a sheepish smile. "I keep forgetting you're not old or married like all my friends' parents." I reach across him and put my empty cup on the bedside table.

"Fortunately, I do not." I say with a smile that makes him laugh aloud. It helps break whatever tension may have been present instantly.

"So, how long have you known?"

"Since you lost your virginity."

"And how long ago was that?"

"Four months ago."

"Do I want to know how you figured that out? I only left condom wrappers in my jeans this week." He points out. While this is true, being a detective encompasses more than collecting physical evidence to establish proof and fact. I answer honestly.

"I recognise the signs. You have a very expressive face. How many girls?"

"Two. I don't want to get a reputation."

"No, you do not. Always protected, yes?"

"Always."

"Check them before use?"

"Yup."

"Good. Do you have any questions for me?"

He looks surprised by this open invitation. I will admit to being slightly unnerved by the potential scope of the topic in question, but feel I am equipped to handle the strain. At this juncture, anything to distract him from the heat is a smart choice. He mulls on the matter for some time before posing his first question.

"How old were you when you lost yours?"

"Nineteen." Dick looks puzzled by this.

"That late? Or am I just early to the party?"

"Adolescence spans many years. A good way to think about it is you lose your virginity when you are ready, not before. I was not ready to lose mine at fifteen, but you were. Despite last night's display, you are generally mature for your age. Such an attitude is very important where sex is concerned." He nods in understanding at this. I am sure he grasps what I am saying. I can already tell he is wording his next question.

"So…how many…women have you slept with?"

"Is that important? It should never be a competition, Dick. It only demeans all involved. I have been involved with a number of women over the years. Some have ended amicably, some have ended badly, but in each instance I respected my partner and their wishes."

"So no one-night stands for Bruce Wayne?"

"No. You?" I say to earn a scoff in reply.

"With my two?"

"Is it any less valid a question?"

"I guess not. Answer's 'no'. I broke up with the first girl after a month and got together with my new girlfriend six weeks ago."

"And why haven't we met her yet?"

"Because we broke up…yesterday." He admits. A bigger reason than the heat is finally presenting itself for scrutiny. It is also more credible for his behaviour. I frown at all this secrecy.

"And you neglected to mention this prior to patrol because?"

"I can't help you kick ass because my girlfriend dumped me is a good excuse?" He says with more than a little bitterness in his voice. I shrug my shoulders.

"It is more than reasonable, given the impact it had on your mood. Did Alfred know?"

"Nope. Think I'm dumb for keeping it to myself?"

"No. I'm just saddened you did not feel like you could confide in Alfred or I on the matter."

"Am I still banned from patrol?" He asks with more than a trace of hope in his voice. I am firm in quashing it.

"Yes, of course. Reasons aside, you still acted terribly last night. You clearly need time to process this before returning to work and the heat is not helping. However, I am glad the reasons for it are now clear. Do not be afraid of telling the truth. It saves me having to wrangle it out of you." Despite this response not going in his favour, Dick still manages a grin.

"I know right? Such a pain in the ass." He pauses to reflect. "Rejection really sucks, doesn't it?"

"Yes, it does. But with enough experience, you will find a way past such difficulties. There is a person out there for you, Dick. It is merely not the person you thought it was." I assure him. He nods in appreciation.

"Mm, got that right. You know, I never really thought you'd be this cool about me going with girls at my age. I thought if I told you, you'd get mad or something and say I was too young to start having sex. It probably seems really stupid to you that I'd think that, but until today, I wasn't sure if you still thought of me as that little boy you met all those years ago." He laughs. "I wasn't sure you could handle me growing up. Like you weren't ready or something. You, the guy who handles anything without batting an eyelid."

"You were never 'that little boy' to me, Dick. You were and always will be my little boy. But watching you grow and mature is a privilege all in itself, one I am glad I get to witness first-hand." I say so there are no misunderstandings about our relationship. This boy is not my ward: he is my son. Sometimes we like to pretend otherwise, to lessen pain over arguments or enforcement of rules, but we are father and son when it is all stripped to its bare bones. He smirks at me.

"Even my mistakes?"

"Especially your mistakes. There is nothing human about perfection."

"Is that you admitting you're an alien?"

I clap him lightly on the back of the head which he takes in good spirits. We exchange smiles. He is not too old just yet. We sit and talk further about nothing in particular for the next while. Neither of us notice the heat.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Follow-up. Point out any grammatical mistakes I may have missed.**

 **Heat 2**

Summer is ending. The heatwave has concluded. The boy returns to school in less than two weeks. Since our frank discussion, he has largely kept himself occupied with his social life. He is absent from the house during the day, only returning after dinner and then only to go to bed. His patrol ban is still in effect. It will remain until next Monday. I believe the extended break has done far more good for him than harm. There have been four instances when he has begged and pleaded to let him accompany me on regular street duties, but they were at least a week apart from one another. I believe it is just part of his weekly routine. The city is still quiet in any case, barely requiring a heavy GCPD effort, much less my own presence. The boy would only be bored, as I am.

It is late at night. I have not ventured out on patrol this evening, content to monitor the city from the cave and police scanner. I am currently in the gymnasium, completing my final round of overhead presses and pull-ups. There have been nine rounds preceding this one, in each I must perform ten overhead presses followed immediately by fifteen pull-ups. The weight on the bar for the press is a shade under two-hundred pounds. The last two rounds have been taxing but far from exhaustive: I could maintain my form for at least five more rounds before it became suspect. Unusually, the boy is also in the gymnasium this evening. He does not even glance at the free weights.

As is his way, Dick is close to fifty feet above the ground performing holds and contortions an Olympic gymnast – and myself – can only dream of executing. And, as is also his way, the boy is wearing his circus outfit. Alfred has somehow altered it to fit his ever-expanding frame whilst also allowing him to keep his dignity: apparently, it is bad luck to wear your underwear beneath such a garish outfit in Haley's Circus, a superstition Dick still holds up. Neither of us has spoken since we came into the room. I have only ventured to look in his direction whilst wiping sweat off the bar and re-chalking my hands. In all instances, I found the boy with his eyes closed performing some body-shaking planche or hold without any visible strain or fear. As I finish my final pull-up and look over, the spectacle is the same: a supremely confident and elite athlete with such feel and trust in his body that sight would only be a distraction.

I quietly move from the free weight area until I stand slightly off the edge of the large gymnastic and acrobatic set-up, looking up to where Dick is transitioning from the trapeze to the rings. His eyes are understandably open as he sails through the air with some speed. He completes one full flip before grasping the rings. His eyes close again when assuming the iron-cross position. He pushes up into a handstand, then back into a full-body planche before splitting his legs. He fluidly manoeuvres into a hanging position below the rings and begins to swing. He builds speed slowly until his complete rotations are blurring together. Then, without any prior warning, he releases the rings and manages four somersaults before hitting the ground with both feet together and his arms raised high above his head. Even now, his wait for applause is instinctive. I oblige him and clap. Blue eyes find me a moment later. He smiles and performs a theatrical bow.

"Still got it, huh?" He says when I stop. I nod in agreement.

"I doubt you will ever lose it. Is that your session concluded?"

"Yeah. Forty-five minutes is enough for me. Is that you finished too?"

"I believe so." The boy nods at this. It is late. There is no more conversation to be had than this brief exchange. I am about to announce my plans to retire for the evening when I notice his gaze has been drawn to something on his left. When I glance in the same direction I see he is regarding our reflections in the gymnasium's only mirror. I use it primarily to correct form on deadlifts and other movements with excessive weight. Due to the slight angle of the mirror and its distance, we are both displayed full-body in the glass. Our side-on profiles and the overhead lights help showcase the size and conditioning of our shoulders, chest and arms. Both our stomachs are almost non-existent in comparison to the rest of our torsos. Dick frowns slightly.

"Think I'm getting there, being a man?" He asks. I nod whilst both of us continue to look in the mirror.

"Unquestionably."

"You kind of make it look like it's still a long way away." Naturally there is a large difference in our heights and body mass: I outweigh the boy by almost fifty pounds and am seven inches taller. However, my physique is not aesthetically pleasing like his, nor should the size of my arms or shoulders be regarded as a measuring stick.

"You are closer than you think. Another year or two will likely prove decisive."

"Were you my size when you were fifteen?"

"No, I was significantly less developed than you at fifteen. I may also have been an inch shorter than your current height." I tell him honestly. His reflection smirks.

"Made up for it later, huh? I'll probably bottom out at five-ten like my dad, probably finish off weighing a buck-seventy-five like him too. He said he couldn't perform at the same level if he was heavier, compromised his movement. I'm definitely going to be the same where movement is concerned. Still, I'd love to have sleeve-filling arms like you, big guy. How big are they?" He asks whilst flexing one of his arms. For a fifteen-year-old, they are highly impressive. I regard my own upper arm with only vague interest. It is serviceable for the mission. There is nothing else I require from it.

"I have never bothered to take a measurement. Perhaps…twenty inches at most." I reply, leaving it hanging loosely by my side. "You should really not get caught up in physicality and size as being important to maturity. It is always what is inside your head that carries the most weight where adolescence is concerned. Anything outside is a bonus." I add. Dick's reflection smiles.

"We've got a lot of bonuses then. You know, it's kind of funny how alike we look. I mean sure, you've got a granite slab for a jaw and weirdly good cheekbones, but our faces are pretty much the same. Same hair colour and eye colour, same skin tone…whoa, we've even got the same ear shape." The boy says tugging on his ear lobe, "That's freaky. I've got the same ears as Batman." He laughs, "I could seriously be your son." I turn away from the mirror to look at him. He copies me. There's a brief silence before he shrugs his shoulders, "You know, if I wasn't already?" I offer him a smile in return.

"Better."

"So can I go on pat— "

"No. We said next week. Believe me, at present you are missing nothing." He huffs and my smile grows wider. "Perhaps there is further to go than I thought." I reach over and lightly tap his left temple with two fingers, "up here." He brushes my fingers away, gifts me half-a-smile for my efforts, and walks past me.

"Yeah, sure. Can't be because I miss being with you or anything." He mutters in exiting the gymnasium, well-aware I can hear every word clearly. "I am nearly sixteen after all."

It is later still. The boy has gone to bed. I am returning to my room after showering and eating a post-workout snack. I find Alfred changing my bedlinen in his own dressing gown and slippers. I watch him expertly finish fitting the new duvet cover before clearing my throat. The old man merely inclines his head whilst smoothing the corners of the duvet to acknowledge me.

"Surely this could have waited until tomorrow, Alfred." I say, already knowing that he has come to talk with me. This was his practice when I was a boy as well. Many important conversations originated from a change of bedsheets in the dead of night. The old man nods in agreement and gestures to the chairs by the window.

"Yes, Master Bruce. However, the topic of the conversation I wish to have cannot wait until the morning. Indulge me?"

"Of course." I say moving to sit in one of the chairs. He sits opposite me. I gesture for him to proceed.

"Master Dick has been most upset recently. He feels that, throughout the whole of his summer vacation, you have barely spent any time with him at all. He says it is as if you want to push him away now he is getting older."

"That is absurd. I have barely spent any time with him because of the patrol ban, which I maintain was a good restriction to impose, and his spending all his time with friends. He enjoys being active, social: time off from being Robin has allowed him to pursue any interests he likes. And I have little doubt his friends are glad of his continued presence as well."

"He spends all his time with friends because he cannot spend time with you. I understand the patrol ban, but the banning him from the cave where you spend a large majority of your time when not at work? And, obviously, when he comes home, you are preparing for patrol so he goes immediately to bed. He is tired of being social. He can be social whenever he likes, but he likes to have excuses for not being social. Being Robin allowed him that freedom. You allowed him that freedom. Now he has little choice but to stay and endure until his friends say otherwise. He cannot keep up appearances all the time, not every day of every week. It is exhausting him. He needs you to let him back in. He said he tried tonight but that you cut him off entirely."

"I…I never intended this ban to hurt him. Why didn't he tell me this situation was affecting him so negatively?" I say, slightly stunned by the old man's summation. Alfred sighs.

"Because he thinks he is supposed to just accept it. Because he's becoming a man. And he thinks men shun emotional distress as nothing but an inconvenience to be dismissed. Now, where do you suppose he acquired such an attitude?" The blame is squarely aimed at me. I am beginning to wonder if there is anything else in the world to blame where the boy is concerned. I sigh. "I thought he had grown out of…I assumed he had less need for me. He has not suffered a nightmare in months. And, the last time he was in my bed…"

"Was when he got suspended for defending your honour in the schoolyard. You remember? Two weeks being completely grounded. What did he say about that experience?" I recall his words very clearly. They were surprisingly vivid. I repeat them without much difficulty.

"He said it nearly killed him."

"Three weeks. Three weeks and counting for this imposed exile, Sir. By the time next week actually arrives, it will have been four weeks. Twice the length. I would imagine it is twice as excruciating an experience for him too. You need to love that one. He's not a tropical flower, but he is wilting slightly. So, I propose that tomorrow you spend the day with him. Give him an excuse not to be with his friends yet again, and let him enjoy your company and involvement. I believe you owe him as much." A long, deathly silence follows this. An image of the boy forms in my head that will not leave until I pose the question to quash it. I sigh.

"Please do not tell me he cried when asking you to speak to me this evening. I…I really could not forgive myself if that was the case." Another silence suffocates the room while I await the old man's reply.

"No tears, Master Bruce. He did not sound himself, but no tears." Alfred answers rising to his feet. "I believe I have caused enough discomfort for tonight. I will leave you to sleep. Good night Sir." He moves past me towards the door.

"Good night Alfred. And thank you." I say before he is out of earshot. He does not reply. He simply holds up a hand in acknowledgement and disappears from view. I close my eyes and think on the matter.

Morning arrives faster than intended. I am just inside Dick's room, looking for clues that would corroborate the level of anguish Alfred described. It is not that I do not believe the boy is upset: it is merely confirmation that for a detective I am astonishingly lacking in perception where he is concerned. Dents in the wall opposite his bed suggest items have been thrown in anger. The freshness of the dents tells me they occurred within the last week. Shifting closer to the dented wall finds a magic 8-ball lying partially cracked on the floor. It was a Christmas gift from a friend. A large majority of the dents have been caused by fists and feet repeatedly attacking the same spots. He is venting frustrations violently. It is uncharacteristic. I check his laundry basket.

I find it jammed not with dirty clothes or underwear, but pyjamas. There are at least four different sets in the basket, all of them damp with sweat. He has been experiencing nightmares too, terrible ones if this is anything to go by. Their frequency is disturbing: Alfred does the laundry every five days. His fan is still going at its maximum setting as I draw up to the bed. He is still sleeping. I briefly feel his shoulder. These pyjamas are dry. I venture to sit on the edge of the mattress. He does not move. I look from him to the dents and then back. Perhaps I was…too explicit with the ban. This evidence would certainly suggest so. I shake his shoulder gently.

"Dick?" I have to repeat myself and my actions three times to provoke any kind of reaction. Deep sleep is good. He clearly needs it. He squints up at me from the pillow.

"What's…what's up?" He asks still barely conscious. I comb through his hair once.

"Would you like to spend the day with me instead of your friends? Perhaps we could…"

"Yeah." He says to cut me off, "No friends today. Just you and me. Later, though. I'm not…ready to wake up yet." He closes his eyes and settles again. I get up and go towards the door.

"I'll wake you in a few hours then."

I am nursing black coffee at the dining table whilst reading the day's newspaper. It is shortly before nine-thirty. I intend to wake Dick up in a few minutes, as soon as I have graduated to the world events section. Less than a minute later, the boy casually wanders through the room, gives me a barely perceptible nod, and vanishes into the kitchen. He returns three minutes later with cereal and a glass of orange juice. As I put the paper to one side in preparation for conversation, Dick continues past the table and is almost out the doorway to the parlour.

"Dick?" I say, standing up. The boy stops in the doorway and looks back.

"Yeah?"

"Where are you going with that?" I ask indicating the bowl. He shrugs.

"To my room? Aren't you running late for work anyway?" I frown at him in bemusement.

"I'm not going to work. Do you not remember our conversation earlier?" The boy raises his eyebrows.

"Conversation about…?"

"Spending the day together?" I watch his eyes light up in understanding and palpable excitement. He turns around and returns to the table, grinning widely.

"I didn't dream that this morning? You coming into my room and telling me I could blow off all my plans today?" He sets his bowl down on the table top opposite me, "That really happened?" I cannot hide my own bewilderment at this scenario, managing a nod. He laughs. "I seriously thought that was a dream this morning! When I woke up just now, I was really mad about it. Another day hanging out at the park or the mall or the movies or any other stupid place I've been a million times this month would've killed me." He sits down and enthusiastically picks up his spoon. "This is great. This is…just what I wanted. Thanks, big man."

We spend the day not being productive. A morning of watching television and movies evolves into wrestling in the swimming pool by mid-afternoon. There is a certain satisfaction to simply spending time with him in these situations. I thought him too old for this type of juvenile behaviour, but I was wrong yet again. I notice how much more relaxed the boy is at dinner this evening than in the few previous we have both attended this summer. His body language and manner is less subdued whilst his propensity to talk without pause also has renewed energy and life. I indulge him throughout all three courses, allowing him to dictate all topics and my interaction. He wants a dialogue so I am thrust into the spotlight often to give responses. He smiles at me without the gesture looking forced. It is all a welcome change of pace for him I think. I would do almost anything to make him happy. Almost anything at all. I forgo patrol in the aftermath of our meal.

"Checkmate." I say after another lengthy contest goes in my favour. Dick surveys the pieces and nods in agreement.

"Yep." The boy declares slouching back in his chair, "That's…three in a row. Well played."

"You have played exceptionally well this evening: the two draws prior to my 'streak' were particularly impressive." I say moving in to reposition the pieces. "Shall we play another?" He holds up a hand.

"Nah, I'm done. One day I'll have you, huh?" He asks with a grin. I smile back in return.

"Perhaps."

We sit and regard one another from across the table in silence for several minutes. He is trying to read me. I am guessing it is to determine whether today's lesson from Alfred has sunk in with me, about spending time with him more frequently. It has, but I cannot promise it will stay with me indefinitely. He seems to understand this judging by the manner in which he sighs a moment later.

"Today was great. But it was just one day. You know there's another three-hundred-and-sixty-four each year? Why does it feel like I only just said this stuff to you? I used to think Groundhog Day was just a movie until I turned fifteen, but it's not. The same day and the same stupid arguments repeat themselves in this house almost every week." He tells me sharply. I understand his frustrations. But after so many empty promises, I cannot lie to him.

"Do you think I'm a selfish man, Dick?"

"The only thing you keep all to yourself is you. Everything else is up for grabs. The problem is that the thing I want is you and your time. So yeah, you can be selfish sometimes, even cruel. You're not going to change though: if you haven't changed by now, You never will." He informs me before shrugging. "I can live with that. I have for the last few years. But the only reason I can cope is because if I'm stressed out or I'm down or feeling lonely, you'll let me hang out with you in the cave. Look, I know I was out of line on patrol that time. Not being Robin for a while was a fair enough punishment. I'll take those lumps all day. But freezing me out of the cave? That's not fair. I needed that space this vacation. Without you and the cave to clear my head, the nightmares are worse. Days out are longer. Nights just…sometimes it's like time isn't moving at all on nights." Dick adds after swallowing hard. The strain is beginning to show through now. He composes himself. "I don't want you to think I'm being girly about it all, but…I really need to just be with you right now instead of my friends." He looks at me in confusion. "Is all because of me having sex now? Is that why you've left me to fend for myself this summer? Do you think I don't need you anymore? What is it?"

"I have misread the situation. It is almost a common occurrence these days, especially where your adolescence is concerned." I tell him bluntly. "I'm sorry your wellbeing always seems to rely on Alfred informing me of what should be obvious facts. I would like to say I will make a concerted effort to change that dynamic…"

"But you don't want to lie to me. I get it. Just promise me you'll try to remember that I still need you to pay attention to me?" Dick says with the same kind of frankness I displayed only moments earlier. It is such a small request that I am ashamed to leave it at that. I gesture with an open hand.

"You can ask for more from me, Dick."

"Yeah? Then lift the cave ban. Please?" He asks putting his hands together as if in prayer. It is still a minor ask given how much unnecessary anguish I have caused him in the last month. I nod in agreement.

"Consider it done. Anything else?"

"Nah. It's enough. Can we go now?" He is already out of his chair and angling towards the door. I follow his lead and rise to my feet. I clap a hand on his shoulder, squeezing the flesh softly.

"Certainly. There is something I could use your opinion on, regarding next month's patrol patterns…"

It is close to midnight. We have been 'working' in the cave for almost four hours. In truth, patrol patterns do not need any attention: they will remain the same as they have all year. After musing on this problem for a matter of minutes, the rest of our time has been consumed with an elongated tour of the entire cave. We venture to every recess its cavernous depths have to offer, marvelling at its natural formations and last resisting bat colony that lurk as far from the artificial lighting and machinery as possible. Dick and I used to play hide and seek in this place during his training. As we walk, he indicates the best and most effective hiding places. They are all spaces too narrow and cramped to accommodate my frame. Now, they are likely too small for the boy as well, unless he is also a contortionist.

I return the favour by showing him the spot of ground I first fell onto as a boy. The opening in the grounds that caused my fall has long been sealed, but I still remember the spot by the features around it. We climb up the steep ledge to the west of the spot and survey the fifteen foot drop where I first began to practice as the Batman. This ledge helped me to hone my aerial drills and intimidation tactics. This whole area is not a place Dick has seen in detail. Although naturally curious about the cave, he is only interested in the places where I am. Since I never venture here, he has never seen it in its proper light.

"This is where I first put on the cowl." I inform him as we stand on the edge of the precipice and stare down into a seemingly endless chasm.

"Why here?" He asks without looking away from the abyss.

"Many reasons. Symbolism, perhaps being the strongest. This is not a bottomless fissure, but if one were to arrive at the base of this chasm safely…they would never be able to climb back out. It is simply too sheer and steep an ascent. Once I put on that mask…there was no way back to the life I had before."

"Maybe not, but your chasm idea isn't great: other people wouldn't be able to climb out, but you sure as hell could. I'm surprised you haven't tried already. Sounds like a challenge you'd love." Dick tells me without a hint of sarcasm. Perhaps I could escape from the bottom of this fissure. Perhaps. There have been far more difficult and seemingly insurmountable death traps since that day. I have escaped them all. One sheer cliff is tame by comparison. I consider.

"Perhaps we might attempt the feat together. We could make an afternoon of it." I say. The boy looks over at me, clearly receptive to the idea. He smiles.

"I bet I'd win a race to the top."

"Do you really?"

"You're going to slow down eventually, big guy."

I am faster now than when I was twenty-five. My endurance and aerobic capacity is higher than ever before, as is my strength and reaction time. I smile in reply. "Perhaps." I glance at my wristwatch. "However, it's late. We should both retire to bed for the evening." Dick considers this.

"Can I push the boat out further?" He asks. I am wary of crumbling to bigger demands in the wake of my guilt. My tone in replying reflects this.

"What did you have in mind, precisely?"

"Read me a story?" He asks with such innocence it takes me aback. I raise my eyebrow.

"Now?" He nods his head.

"I'm still your little boy, right? Even with all the…self-discovery I've made in the past few months?" His voice still has traces of uncertainty and apprehension flowing through it. One day, I won't be able to elicit this response from him: he will simply have stopped trying to reach me. I make the most of being able to answer this one almost immediately.

"I…would dearly like to think so."

Twenty minutes later finds us in his room. We are both dressed in pyjamas and in familiar positions: I am on top of the bedsheets with book in hand and he is underneath with his head resting on my chest. The book this evening is one we have explored a thousand times before. Despite this, the first words of its narrative never fail to stir something in both of us that calls back to simpler times:

"Alice was getting very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do…"


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Not sure whether this fit perfectly with previous chapters, but am willing to stick it out for scrutiny. Unlike the rest of Heat, this is told from Dick's POV and offers a compelling perspective why pixie shorts and short-sleeved tunics are probably not a good idea on the streets of Gotham. Set two weeks after last instalment.**

 **Please read and review.**

 **Enjoy.**

 **Grind**

I'm laughing. I know I shouldn't be, but I can't help myself. Bruce is looking at me like I'm nuts, but I can't hold it in. GCPD guys on the scene are looking confused too. I keep laughing for another two minutes before they slow down to just stops and starts. Another minute and they're barely audible. About thirty seconds later, I'm composed again. The big man's eyes are asking for an explanation. I just shrug my shoulders. His eyes linger on me for another few moments before picking another would-be terrorist out of the surrounding rubble. I follow his lead and bag my own terrorist a few seconds later. What just happened should mean we're both dead. Us and everyone within a two-block radius should be in pieces over the real estate. But we're not. No-one is. The terrorists detonated an improvised device in Downtown Gotham, about five feet from where we were standing, and we're all still alive. Half the bottom floor of the hotel is covered in ash and piles of debris, but everyone's still breathing. And, when the dust cleared and I realised I was still here, all I could think about was my algebra test tomorrow afternoon and how I'd still have to take it. For some reason, I found that really funny, like tears-in-my-eyes funny. I nearly lost my life and I'm peeved about algebra class? I've got issues.

About twenty-five minutes after the big event, all the bad guys have been rounded up and sent for processing by GCPD's finest. After making sure we're good to go, intelligence-wise, it's back to the car. When the doors are closed, Bruce looks at me again with a less intense stare.

"Are you okay, Dick?" He asks. I nod.

"Yeah. I'm just…happy to be alive. That's all."

"Take your mask off so I can check?" He thinks I might have a concussion. If I do, my eyes will give away how bad it is. I know I haven't, but I take my mask off to prove it. He scopes both of them for almost a minute before bringing in finger tests to see how well I track movement. Everything's fine there too. He signals for me to put it back on. "I see. I suppose it was a close call. We should be thankful the blast had less explosive material than was needed to create a sizeable kill zone. Instead, all we got was a…"

"Concussive effect. Never let an amateur rig a serious bomb, huh?" I say putting my mask back in place as he starts the engine. He smirks.

"Better an amateur than a professional. We do not need successful terrorist bombings in this city. Any ringing in your ears?"

"Obviously a little immediately after it hit, but it's cleared up now. You?"

"The cowl structure prevents such impairment. Alfred should examine you thoroughly when we return home. You know why, don't you?" Yeah, wondered when he'd get to that. Hindsight is really annoying, especially now it's all over. I sigh.

"Because I went with my usual getup instead of the full survival suit you recommended I wore underneath my tunic…"

"For?" He prompts when I hold back. Eye roll time.

"For safety. Prevent…" I pause to examine the stingy feeling on the underside of my left elbow. There's a two-inch gash cutting right across it, bleeding like a stuck pig. "cuts and bruises."

When we get back to the cave, Alfie gives me my marching orders to get in the showers. Peeling off my tunic is about as difficult and painful as trying to yank off my own skin. All my cuts are screaming, all my bruises are aching and the less said about how heavy my body feels the better. Still, no-one else is down in this area of the cave. When I let out a few muffled cries of agony when I bump my pixie shorts against badly skinned knees, and suck my teeth in brushing past another hell of a gash, nobody can hear them. In the shower, it only gets worse. I literally scream twice when water hits the wrong spots. The second time, I hear the definite sound of approaching footsteps over the shower nozzle.

"Is everything alright, young man?" Alfie calls from the far side of the area. At the minute, I've got my back to the entrance and my forehead against the tiled wall in front of me. I grit my teeth and try to sound like I'm not on the verge of passing out. This is nasty stuff. I look down and find a lot more blood circling the drain than I'm comfortable with seeing from my own body. It's not enough to think I'm bleeding out or internally, but it's not good. I should've worn the stupid suit, whether it massively restricted my movement or not.

"Feels like I've rolled down a hill of broken glass and landed in a lake of vinegar and salt." I shout back over the water. The footsteps grow louder until a hand appears over my left shoulder and turns the nozzle off.

"That's not a healthy amount of blood at your feet either." Alfie says to echo my own assessment of how dumb I am. I nod but keep my head on the tile.

"Yeah, that's what I was just thinking."

"Well, given the circumstances, I think it would be best if we skipped the shower and clean the biggest offenders by hand. Let me fetch my kit." He says draping a bath towel over my back. I gingerly grab hold of the corners and pull it as tight as I can without lapsing back into pain. There's a brief pat on the sorest spot of my back that makes me wince and he's off to the races. Any adrenaline I had from escaping death by explosion has definitely gone. All that's left is pain as I sit down on the bench and wait for Alfie's return. When he comes back, it looks like he's brought the whole medical cabinet with him.

"Is Bruce okay then?" I ask as he lays out his toolkit.

"Master Bruce is fine, minor bruising only for the most part." He says snapping on some surgical gloves. "Don't worry about him strolling down here either. I have sent him upstairs and out of the way. A young man deserves privacy for moments like this. Shall we begin?"

I grin and bear most of the alcohol swabs, disinfectants and patching with some sliver of dignity. Then his eyebrow suddenly goes up. When Alfie's treating your battle scars and his eyebrow arches up like Roger Moore in a Bond film, it's never a good sign. It means he's hit a speedbump and things are about to get a lot more complicated to fix. He narrows his eyes at my right elbow and then frowns hard. He grabs the forceps off his little tray by my leg and I get jittery. "What's going on, Alfie?" I ask in my shakiest voice. I can see him thinking how to break bad news for almost twenty whole seconds.

"You have a glass shard embedded in your elbow joint. It looks to be…quite deep."

"How deep…exactly?" My voice has gone from shaky to jelly in five seconds. I can barely stop it from wobbling apart altogether.

"Hard to say, perhaps…hmm…three inches?" Three inches? How freaking long is this damn thing? I start feeling faint. Suddenly his hand is on my shoulder. "I can pull it out, Sir. But you will have to remain perfectly still or it may shatter under the sudden change in pressure. It's a minor miracle it has not fragmented already." I lick my lips and nod in understanding. This is going to really hurt. I mean like, really, really, REALLY hurt. I try to get out a coherent sentence.

"Can…Can I…Can I…with my hand and…and your shoulder…the thing?" A lifetime of English and it fails me at fifteen. I blame the schools…and my total crazy fear of needles. Lucky for me, Alfie speaks crazy person. He nods.

"As long as you do not break my bones, that will be fine." I stick my left hand on his right shoulder as he sits in front of me and brace my body. After lying my right elbow flat on my leg, he gets the forceps in position for the pulling. "Ready?" I screw my eyes shut and nod once. "Steady as we go." As soon as they touch the end of the shard, I have to clench my teeth together to stop shrieking at the pain. He stops pulling and sticks a wooden bit in my mouth to keep me from breaking my teeth. Then he starts pulling again. The pain shoots up my arm like lightning. Each second feels like a thousand years. It feels like I'm halfway through the bit when the tears start down my face. I can't even muffle my screams now. I'm trying to make a fist through Alfie's shoulder as the torture drags on and on. Just as I think I'm going to break and jerk my arm back, I feel the pain vanish. My forehead presses against his chest as my jaw finally relaxes and tears run riot over my cheeks like rainwater. I hear him set down his tools before feeling a latex hand gently squeeze the back of my neck and ruffle my hair. His other hand takes the bit out of my mouth. "Good boy." He says soothingly before kissing me on the scalp, "It's all over now. We got it out intact." I take a deep breath to get myself back in check.

"That was…the most painful thing ever." I say after a minute of composure time. My head's still against his chest. I feel safe here with him. He strokes the back of my head.

"Yes. The chances are it partially struck a major nerve that you will know as your 'funny bone'. You coped exceedingly well in the circumstances."

"I screamed like a girl, Alfie. Don't sugar-coat it."

"Most would have passed out from the pain. You did not. Take pride in that. Now, I need to treat the rest of your wounds so you can enjoy a decent night's sleep."

"Can't I just sleep here?" I ask, kind of comfy despite the weird position I'm in. He chuckles in gently pushing me back.

"I'm afraid not. I'm many things, but I am not a post."

After the big glass fiasco, the rest of the treatment is fairly tension-free. When he gets below my waist and starts on my legs, everything's a bit easier to stomach. The only thing I slightly dread as his hands get higher, is the groin check. Even though my pixie shorts are made of Kevlar and protect my boys against anything short of a large calibre bullet, Bruce's endless hours of explosive ordinance theory and its effects on the human body told hammer home the dangers of not feeling around that area after an event like this. Still, better Alfie's hand brush against my junk than me bleed out overnight because of something nicking a major artery in my sleep. He gets me to lie flat on the ground, on _top_ of my towel to make the exam easier, and then begins probing. Then he gets me to bend my legs and press my feet into the floor. Suddenly it's really drafty down here.

"How's the view?" I ask him as I feel his wrist bump against me in checking the extreme upper part of my right thigh.

"The less said about it the better, I feel." He says pressing his thumbs into the flesh and running them up slowly on my hamstring. Fresh bruises don't like the pressure, but I resist flinching. "We are good on the right leg. Just the left to go and we're done."

"No credit card swipe?" I check as his hands shift over.

"I don't think we need indulgences, Sir. This is supposed to be an external medical examination." I feel his knuckles brush against the underside of my sac in checking my left hamstring and inside of my leg. The latex does not feel right.

"How come you didn't start with this if it's such a big deal?"

"I like to save a good laugh for the end of my exams. Makes all the shrieking and carrying on worthwhile." I laugh at this, despite my compromising position and how badly everything still hurts. It is kind of funny to be sprawled on the floor, butt-naked, while some old man checks out my assets. Anybody but Alfie and I'd think I'd been duped.

"You know the funny thing is I don't even do this for Bruce? I go out there and put myself through the ringer because I genuinely like it. I think all the blood, sweat and tears are great. Making a difference is like the ultimate rush." His hands leave my leg. His face suddenly appears over mine.

"Next time, wear the bloody suit though, hmm? Contrary to popular belief, I am contracted to be a _butler_ in this house, not a combat medic or a voyeur." I grin at him.

"I won't tell if you won't, Alfie." He narrows his eyes at me but then smiles anyway. He knows inappropriate and really badly-timed jokes are staples of my fifteenth year on the planet.

"Get dressed."

Alfie recruits Bruce to carry me from the cave to my room once I've angled my way into sweatpants and a hoodie from one of the lockers. The big man is already in his pyjamas when he picks me up, bride-style, from the bench and starts the long walk back upstairs. Alfie stays behind to clear up the mess.

"I wanted to walk you know." I tell him when he's going up the stairs to the library.

"I know. But Alfred would rather you did not rip open newly clotted wounds and stitches by scaling very steep steps. I'm certain you want to heal without significant scarring. Was everything okay?"

"He yanked a three-inch piece of glass out my elbow that hurt like hell, but otherwise it was fine. Ever think about installing an elevator?"

"You wearing a full-body suit is a far easier solution." He says with a blatant smile. I smile back. I like when he's in a good mood.

"Are you ever going to stop ribbing me about that?"

"Not this week."

"Oh, funny guy. I'd clap but I've used all my sarcasm on Alfie."

"And I doubt you want either of us to fall to our deaths from the sudden imbalance it would cause at this height." He says. I sigh.

"And the laughter dies."

I weigh just over a buck-fifty, about sixty pounds less than Bruce. When you think about it, it's not a heavy weight to carry for a short distance. Even a long walk across a room isn't too much of a stretch. But Bruce scales twenty vertical metres in height, then walks close to quarter of a mile to get me in my bed. It's a freakish display of endurance, especially after tonight's events. I already know when he sets me down that I'm not going to sleep too well with this many cuts and bruises.

"Do you think you might sleep better in your pyjamas?" He asks when I'm about to hop into bed. I thumb my hoodie to see how thick it is. Pretty thick. I shrug.

"Took me long enough to get this stuff on. I don't want to waste another twenty minutes of sleep time."

"I could help you. But, if you don't think it would make a difference…"

"No, it probably would. I just…with me not wearing underwear and all…not really keen on it."

"I understand. A good idea might be to sleep on your good side with a pillow between your legs. It could alleviate some pressure and discomfort. Goodnight, Dick."

"Night, Bruce."

I wait until he's out of the room and walking down the hallway before beginning to change into my jammies. By the time I'm fastening the last button on my shirt, it's about a half-hour later. The gauze and bandages help a little, but it's still like being stabbed with a thousand needles every time I move. I do what the big guy suggested and jam a pillow between my legs in getting under the covers. It does help. Once I'm settled, I sleep well.

"Dick?" I open my eyes to find Bruce looming over me. I rub my eyes.

"Is it daytime?"

"Almost eleven. How did you sleep?"

"Yeah, okay." I say before realising what he just said. Eleven in the morning on Wednesday? The algebra test. I need to get up. "I'm late for school. I need to go." I mumble, still half-asleep in getting onto my elbows. As soon as they touch the mattress I yelp in pain. He smiles at me.

"Alfred has already told your teachers you are sick today. If everything is fine today, you can go back tomorrow and see out the week."

"What about you? Shouldn't you be in a meeting somewhere?"

"I've taken a personal day."

"For me? Aw, you shouldn't have. I'm touched." I tell him mockingly. He cuffs me lightly around the ear.

"I see you got into your pyjamas. Difficult?"

"I hit a few snags, but nothing…" I pause in moving my legs off the pillow. They're sticky and it's not sweat. I'm terrified when I think it might be pee and Bruce could smell it, but it isn't. I reach down beneath the covers and touch the stuff with my fingers. When I bring them back up, they're bright red. Bruce sees it too and throws back the duvet. Everything below my knees, including the bottom-half of the pillow is covered in blood, some dry, some fresh. I throw back my head and sigh. "Shit."

"Something's torn open. Perhaps several things from the looks of it. Do you feel any pain?" He says without a great deal of concern, which is oddly reassuring.

"Only if it's embarrassment. It's on the sheets as well, isn't it?"

"Don't worry about the sheets. I'll get Alfred up to redress the open wounds."

"Not yet. I look like a victim in the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Can you take me to the shower? Kind of feel like should freshen up a little."

The big man carries me to the shower, then helps me peel off my PJs that have somehow welded themselves to my body. "Think Alfie can save them?" I ask as we discover that half the dressings and tape on my knees has come loose and all the clots have ripped open. Bruce eyes my blood-caked jammies distastefully. Somehow blood's been smeared on the hem of my shirt too. I must have been fidgeting all night.

"Perhaps." He replies helping me tear off all the now useless dressings so I can wash my wounds clean again. "Let's get this situation dealt with before we consider the laundry implications. Into the shower please."

The shower's almost as painful as last night, but I man-up because the big guy is just outside the door. Once all the new blood and dried blood and remnants of tape and gauze and whatever else is sticking to me is washed off, I get another big towel wrapped around me before being ferried back into my room. This time when Alfie comes to play doctor, I get to wear boxers to spare my blushes. Apparently, I've just about ripped or torn every big injury back open in the night. Both my left and right elbows need some emergency patching too. Even I'm starting to think I should've just worn the survival suit.

"I'm sorry for giving you a headache, Alfie." I tell him when he's halfway through his second attempt to plug all the leaks on my body. "And ruining the sheets, the pillows, my jammies…"

"Well, as luck would have it, money has never been a problem in this house. Do not concern yourself with it." He says in re-stitching my elbow closed, this time with stronger suture.

"I'm happy to leave if you want some privacy, Dick." Bruce tells me from the far side of the bed. He wanted to leave when Alfie turned up, but I told him to stay.

"It's cool if I want you to stay, right? Privacy's great, but you've both seen me in my birthday suit in the last twelve hours, so that's my idea of privacy shot dead."

"I just do not want you to think I am babying you with my presence." He says to be far nicer to me than I deserve. I smile at him.

"Yeah, but I kind of am a baby. If I'd just worn the suit instead of paying lip service, I wouldn't be in this position. So, it's all my fault."

"In the circumstances, I should have insisted you wear it. We are both at fault here." The big man counters. He's getting really good at making me feel better after a screw-up.

"Yeah, but that really would have been babying me. I should have seen that it would've been better wearing the suit than not. At least I could go to school today. What's your take, Alfie?" The old man sighs as he cuts the excess off my suture and dabs away the blood.

"I think that quibbling semantics is a pointless venture. If they had been successful with their bomb, both of you would have been vaporised, survival suit or not. Since that did not happen, and both of you are alive, we can consider this a win." He says as the typical voice of reason in this house. "However, perhaps the biggest win achieved here is the fact I don't have to wait on you hand-and-foot whilst you do your best impression of a granite slab and _do not move_. Isn't that right, Master Bruce?"

"As you say, old friend. I will play nursemaid for the day."

"Be careful, Sir. You almost make it sound like a pleasure instead of a chore. Be under no illusion he is a handful even when not playing invalid."

"Please tell me something I don't know, Alfred." Bruce says narrowing his eyes. Alfie narrows his and considers for a moment before giving some really unnecessary information about me.

"He has a mole on his pubic bone." The old man says only for the big guy to scoff.

"I said something I _don't_ know, Alfred." Oh great, he saw it too. Well, yeah, that's, that's just great news. Alfie mulls it over again.

"He shaves his…"

"Okay, enough with the personal observations!" I say to cut him off before he can get any more graphic. "Are you done treating me, Alfie?" I check.

"No, Sir. I still have to bandage your knees…"

"Can Bruce do it?"

"I suppose so, but…"

"Then kindly get out? I feel like we've gotten to know each other a little too well recently." He smiles at me but bows his head and stands up.

"Very good, Master Dick." We both watch him leave the room. The big man then gets in his place and starts swabbing my knees with alcohol buds. He looks up at me and smiles.

"I know about that too."

"Yeah, but you told me to do it. _For the ladies_ , you said." I fire back a little too defensively. He nods in agreement.

"And it's an excellent job. Very neat." Oh, he's pushing his luck now. That's the last time I trust him to be professional. I roll my eyes.

"Just shut up and patch me before I call the cops on both of you."

"Certainly. This is going to be a fun day."


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Chapter four of Heat, set from Bruce's POV. Set a week after the previous instalment, Bruce returns exhausted from a patrol and goes to bed. What awaits him when he wakes the following morning is both predictable...and not.**

 **Please read and review.**

 **Enjoy.**

 **Naked**

 **Bruce**

I am tired from patrol. The boy is still nursing his injuries and did not accompany me this evening. It is fine. He needs to ensure they do not re-open unnecessarily. Alfred is positive he can return to limited patrol duties within the week. It is an effort to climb the stairs from the cave floor. I decide it is too great an effort in my current state to shower or don pyjamas. Fortunately, today is Saturday. I will administrate myself in the morning. With no injuries to speak of, I allow myself to collapse onto the mattress and then to fall into a deep and peaceful sleep. I awake to daylight streaming through open curtains. From my current position, flat on my back, I move onto my elbows only to find I have acquired a human limpet during the night.

Dick is hugging my side, his forehead resting just under my right armpit. I immediately lift the covers to ensure he has not torn anything and saturated my bedsheets in blood. He has not. However, my action has unearthed a far greater concern: the boy is as naked as I am. I know that I have not encouraged this behaviour, and I know Dick would not place himself in such a compromising position without the heavy influence of medication. The problem is, no medication he has been prescribed for his injuries would account for what has occurred. Still, one thing I have learned in recent months is that the boy is anything but homosexual. I can only surmise Alfred has made a mistake, given him the wrong pill or the wrong dose. It is the only logical explanation.

Perhaps it may be possible to slip out of bed and dress both myself and him without disturbing his sleep. That would certainly help offset the awkwardness of the current scenario. If his medication has provoked this, perhaps it also means deeper sleep. Waking him as we are would more than likely humiliate both of us beyond measure. I carefully inch my body away from his, attempting to be both subtle and gentle simultaneously. I am close to succeeding as one of my feet negotiates its way to the floor. As I rotate my torso away from him, his arms suddenly spring into life and lash themselves around my midsection. It is an instinctive motion rather than a deliberate reaction, one that does little to deter me in escaping this difficult trap. I deftly prise his hands from my torso and replace the void I have created with my pillow. He takes to this, burying his face halfway along its body in my stead. I am about to plant my other foot on the floor when he suddenly rolls onto his stomach and catches a leg around my own.

His bare crotch is now dangerously close to mine. We have reached the crisis point of this situation. I feel suspiciously like someone trying to slip away from a one-night stand instead of a parent trying to spare his child's blushes and salvage our shared dignity. I do not believe my soft approach is working. I throw back the covers to better analyse our respective positions. His right shin has crossed over and under my right knee. His right elbow has flared out from the pillow and is intermittently bumping my floating ribs. Those points of contact aside, we are separate. If I cannot move his leg, perhaps I will have greater success moving my own. I check the space to my left and decide the best course of action is to lock out my knee and slip it out by manoeuvring sideways. I must simply pray he does not wake up during my efforts.

I lock my leg and successfully free it from his. I am almost off the bed completely when he rolls the other way and traps my foot in his own knee at the ankle joint. I now cannot move at all without dragging him along with me. Given that both his legs are still littered with healing cuts and yellowing bruises, dragging him is not the best solution. I also know that turning my foot in an effort to create room will result in either my toes or my heel making contact with his groin. Realising the futility of this struggle, I reluctantly return to the mattress and replace the covers. I lean over and bring my mouth close to his ear.

"Dick?"

"Mmm?"

"You're currently lying naked in my bed with my right foot trapped in your legs." This prompts sudden stillness in his entire body.

"I'm what?" The dread is palpable. Instead of repeating myself, I opt for practicality.

"Can you feel something lodged behind your left knee?"

"Yeah?"

"Kindly lift your leg so we may stop being a symbiotic lifeform." He lifts his left leg up, allowing me to extract my foot and return us to wholly separate states.

"Do I even want to turn around right now?" Dick inquires, despite already knowing my answer.

"I would rather you didn't. Neither us is fit for company at present. Do you have any explanation for your actions?"

"I'm not gay, alright? I remember going to bed, my own bed, in my boxers, and that's all." The boy retorts with more than a little anger in his voice. He pauses in drawing breath to add more. He is considering something. "Why was your foot trapped in my legs? What were you doing?"

"I was attempting to remedy the situation by extracting myself from the bed. You refused to let me leave quietly. It was like trying to outsmart an octopus." I tell him running a hand down my face. He sniffs his shoulder and sighs.

"You didn't have a shower last night, did you?"

"Patrol was...very tiring last night. I intended to shower this morning. How do you know?"

"Because I smell like stale sweat and cordite. Pretty sure I didn't get into a shoot-out last night before bed. Hey, did we...touch?" The boy is referring to our genitals. Whilst I cannot speak for what happened during the course of the night, I am more than happy to inform him nothing happened whilst I was awake.

"No. You know you're not at fault here, don't you?" I tell him, eyeing the nearby dresser and deciding this is the ideal moment to don some underwear at the very least.

"How's this not my fault exactly? It's not like you got into my bed naked last night." He responds sullenly as I leave the bed and retrieve a pair of boxers from the top drawer. I try to sound non-judgemental on the issue.

"Alfred must have given you the wrong medication. I take it you ingested another round prior to bed last night?" I ask pulling on my boxers and snapping the elastic waistband as an audible cue for Dick to know I am decent enough. He still does not turn to face me.

"Yeah, but only the usual paracetamol and ibuprofen cocktail I take most nights."

"Did you get them yourself?" I say sitting atop of the covers and leaving reasonable space between us. Dick nods.

"Yeah. Alfie doesn't have to get me a couple of pills. I can manage."

"You probably took one of the morphine sulphate pills instead. Given Alfred's unusual storage system for medication, it would be an easy mistake to make, especially if grabbed in haste." I suggest rubbing down the length of my face again, and appraising the sandpaper-like quality of my stubble.

"I'm not...going to die now, am I?" The boy checks with only hints of trepidation in his voice. He knows better. I dare to reach across the divide and gently ruffle the back of his head, hoping it is not a mistake at present.

"No. The very fact that you are alert and conscious means it must not have been more than ten milligrams. If you are not used to taking it, however, the side effects tend to be...diverse. Can we both agree that it is the most likely explanation and leave it at that?" He reaches up and places his hand over mine, squeezing it in mute appreciation.

"I'd be more than happy with that. Thanks, Bruce."

"I'm going to have a shower now. Do you want me to fetch you some underwear before I go or would you prefer to handle it yourself?" I ask him.

"I'd appreciate an assist, big guy. Can you get me the ones with the cats on them?" The boy likes novelty underwear. Alfred often likens his laundry basket to an explosion in a crayon factory. Though he is maturing rapidly, he is still not quite as boring as the rest of us just yet. I smile and pat his head.

"I shall see what I can find."

When I return to the room, Dick is sat up and able to look me in the eye without getting red-cheeked about it all. His body language is markedly less tense too. It seems he does not blame himself for placing us in such a compromising state. He inclines his head as I pass him the cat boxers. He regards them in silence. "So... how many times have you seen me in my birthday suit since the start of August?"

"Three times. It is still not enough to qualify as a trend. This was...this was the first time ever that injury, nightmares or the weather did not play a factor. This instance exclusively belongs to narcotics. With any luck, it will also be the only time drugs cause it. Do we really need to discuss the matter further?"

"Really want to take that shower, huh?"

"Yes. I suggest you do the same. I had a very heavy workload."

"No wonder your sheets reek so badly." He says shooting me a smile that says he is not as embarrassed by what has transpired as I had feared. I smile back.

"I need you back out there as soon as possible. Business is beginning to pick up again. When did Alfred say you could return to duties?" Dick takes the opportunity to slip on his own underwear beneath the privacy of my bedsheets before flinging them back and standing up alongside me. They would look ridiculous on anyone else but him. Admittedly, this is due more to the quality of his physique than the boxers themselves, which are hideous.

"Alfie says Wednesday or Thursday is a safe bet. He wants me to lay off until Friday though, just to make sure." Dick says whilst flashing his elbows, which have healed up remarkably well, given the amount of suture they required to close. I run a hand over them in turn, testing their condition by feel instead of mere sight. Despite what happened earlier, the boy does not object. I nod in agreement.

"Yes, Alfred is right to be cautious. The skin needs a few more days to toughen it sufficiently for our kind of work. How are your knees?"

"My left still feels a little sore, but my right's doing all kinds of great. I don't crap myself going up a flight of stairs anymore. That has to be a good sign. You don't want to feel them too, right?" He asks impishly. Perhaps I am taking liberties this morning. He will be sixteen in less than two months. Today's incident notwithstanding, he likely does not need me to check his injuries for him. I pat him on the shoulder.

"All I want is that shower. Are you coming down for breakfast?"

"Sure thing. I'll see you in thirty."

My overdue shower proves to be a good reward for what has come before. After shaving and renewing my dry skin with moisturiser, I dress in a tailored white polo and cream-coloured slacks then journey downstairs, where I find myself in time to hear the tail end of what is no doubt a fascinating conversation.

"So, then I wake up and Bruce is saying 'Dick, you're lying naked in my bed with my foot trapped between your legs', you know, like he's discussing the weather or something. I thought I was having the worst dream of my life until he kept talking, you know, in that way that makes you buy into reality that you wouldn't with anyone else." Dick says from inside the kitchen where he is inevitably setting the scene for the old man.

"You took the wrong pills from the cabinet, didn't you?" Alfred replies. I hear the distinct rattle of crockery on the countertop. The old man is preparing to plate up breakfast.

"Bruce thinks it was probably morphine sulphate making me a little loopy."

"So, why was his foot between your legs?"

"He'd been trying to escape from my clutches, apparently. I wouldn't let him go." Dick says with a soft chuckle. I imagine he is miming actions to accompany his narrative. I also imagine Alfred is very much amused by them.

"And you believe him?"

"Look, I wake up butt-naked in any other guy's bed and not remember how I got there, I think I've been drugged. I wake up in Bruce's bed like that, I think...I must've really needed him to make me feel okay. Sure, I would've liked to have picked a better night, when I didn't get under the covers naked at the same time he chose to forgo pants, but I slept better than I have in a week. I know that's all down to him. And, even though anyone else in that situation would've made a big deal out of it, their fifteen-year-old kid getting into bed with them like a one-night stand, Bruce was just...Bruce. And I don't think he has any idea how much I need that understanding right now. I think he just does it because that's who he is."

"If that were true, Master Bruce would be far more forgiving of others. Since he holds grudges against business associates who 'get into bed' with rivals, has little time for the mistakes of his wealthy contemporaries and views almost all criminals, regardless of motives, as scum, I would argue he treats you the way he does because he loves you more than anything else in the world and..." There is a brief pause before the old man sighs. "This is a private conversation, Sir. When a young man is confiding in his butler, kindly do not eavesdrop simply to hear compliments you do not deserve."

I open the door and wander in. "It was not intentional." I tell the pair of them. Alfred is quick to roll his eyes.

"Until it _was_ intentional. If you are going to lie, Master Bruce, please do so convincingly."

"Very well. I take it you believe this whole incident described was a misunderstanding of sorts?" I check eyeing both the boy and the plates of vastly differing breakfasts. While one has scrambled egg whites, a pitted avocado half and a generous helping of spinach and kale, the other consists entirely of pop tarts and peanut butter on toast. The old man spoils him.

"As the lad says, anybody else but you and I would suspect something tantamount to incest."

"Perhaps you might serve breakfast, Alfred, before I lose my appetite from such talk." I tell him without any sense of levity. Alfred recognises the shift immediately. The old man clears his throat.

"Of course, Sir. Would you prefer the dining room or the living room today?"

"Dick may choose venues."

"Living room please, Alfie."

We sit beside one another on the sofa and eat in comfortable silence. Dick is now dressed in blue jeans and one of his less offensive T-shirts. Anything is preferable to nudity at this stage. Instead of the usual local news broadcast, we watch some daytime sitcom, one that has a jarring laugh track. Dick is kind enough to change the channel after less than twenty minutes. He reads my body language better than he thinks; he was enjoying it. We are now watching a historical documentary on H.H. Holmes, believed to be America's first serial killer and a candidate for being Jack the Ripper's mantle too. I will admit it is an odd choice for background noise at breakfast, but we are an odd family. Somehow hearing of Holmes' 'murder hotel' coincides with an empty plate.

"Hey Bruce?"

"Yes?"

"What do you call an alligator in a vest?" I close my eyes and groan. No. Not now. Please don't start now. I sigh.

"I... don't know."

"An _investigator_!" Dick announces for perhaps the hundredth time in our tenure. He then laughs at his own punchline for the hundredth time. I stand up with my plate.

"I'm leaving now, Dick. Good day." His hand grabs my wrist before he is forced to stretch himself. He grins sheepishly.

"I'm really sorry, big guy. I thought you'd like it because it's relevant to what we're watching. You know, being crime-related and all." I narrow my eyes at this poor excuse for inflicting such detestable material on me at this hour of the morning.

"Do you tell your friends these jokes?" I ask. His grin widens.

"Yeah, of course."

"Do they laugh?"

"Are you kidding? They hate them more than you do."

"Then why on earth do you persist in telling them?"

"Because it's funny how peeved everyone gets with me. Hey, I never told you where I learnt all my best lines, did I?"

"I do not want to hear the origins of your routine, Dick. I can only imagine you either read the worst joke book on the planet or were given very bad advice in the circus." I say only for the boy to shake his head.

"Nope. My parents told me the jokes when I was around six. My dad was like me, always laughing at his own bad jokes. Anyway, I didn't think they were very funny. But I got around to telling the clowns some of the jokes before long. They weren't impressed. Ever seen an unhappy clown?" He asks tugging lightly on my arm in an effort to get me to sit back down. I do so begrudgingly.

"Only in Pagliacci."

"Yeah, well, that's nothing compared to seeing a pissed-off clown glaring at you. It was so funny, I started laughing. And, I learned the more I found my own jokes funny, the more pissed-off the audience was and the funnier they looked. Seriously, some of the expressions you and Alfie pull when I keep reeling them off has me on the verge of wetting myself for weeks, same with my friends. Eventually, I'd laugh at my own jokes because I knew how peeved everyone was going to be. I love being a bad comedian. I'm really good at it."

"You should not be proud of your 'talents' in that area, Dick. Sometimes I find you so annoying I want to strangle you."

"I know. I literally see murder in your eyes when I strike up the band. That's why you're my favourite guy to perform on. You get so, so angry and you still don't snap at me. All my friends, and even Alfie once or twice, yell at me to shut up after five minutes. You're the only one who hasn't jumped down my throat about it at least once. It only gets funnier when we both know you've shouted at me in the past for much worse and much less than my repertoire." His eyes brighten. He is about to deliver another one. "What do you call a bunch of singing dinosaurs?" I clench my jaw. He shakes my wrist. "Can you guess?" I know the answer. It is ingrained in my memory, alongside all the other useless information Dick has filled my head with over the years. I muster a sporting smile.

"A... _Tyrannochorus_." I almost spit. He laughs. Loudly.

"Oh my god! Batman told a dinosaur joke! The World's Greatest Detective is a fan of my work!" He crows. I am constantly amazed by how childish he can be when the mood takes him.

"Are you sure you're not six instead of nearly sixteen?" I ask to try and throw him off his stride. This barb is not enough to cow him. His laughter tapers off.

"You've seen me naked: do I look six to you?" He asks throwing his arms wide. He starts laughing again, likely at the absurdity of our relationship compared to those of his friends and their fathers. Since adopting him at twelve, I have seen him naked more than I imagine any father sees their son in an average lifetime. It is an accolade I am not proud of.

"I was referring to your mental age." I tell him with a smirk. He smirks back.

"Not with all the stuff I've seen. You're just jealous because I'm funnier than you. And handsomer. And I've got better abs than you. Plus..." He stops his boasting mid-sentence. His expression, so eager and happy a moment ago, suddenly becomes melancholic. "You wanna know the truth, Bruce?" He asks, looking at his hand that is still around my wrist. I proceed with caution.

"Always."

"I couldn't be all those things without you. I... I don't think I'd still be John and Mary Grayson's son if I hadn't met you. I think I'd be a tearaway in a foster home...and that I'd hate anything to do with the circus." He offers mournfully. My response is equally morose.

"We both know I am not a saviour, Dick. What you have suffered since you came to his house goes beyond the classifications of child abuse and borders on sadism. And I have made terrible decisions with you many times. There is an equal possibility you would be better off having never met me to begin with." The boy smirks at this, but it is far from jovial.

"You're almost as good at playing devil's advocate as Alfie. We both know I'm as dark as you inside. That's why we're so good together. I need to vent my anger all the time. If I didn't have criminals to hit, I'd be hitting something else. If I didn't have you to comfort me, and understand how messed-up I am inside, I'd probably hurt myself. I might even jump off the bridge."

"Dick, you know I will get you any help you need. All you have to do is ask for it." We both know neither of us will ever seek professional help for our issues and emotional scarring. As upsetting as it is to see the parts of him that mirror my own psyche too closely, it is somewhat gratifying to know my symptoms are not an exception. Seeing both parents die before your eyes in brutal fashion, to have their warm blood spattered on you like spilt paint, is not something that ever mends. Dick shakes his head and looks up at me.

"Nah, I'm good. Just promise you'll always love me exactly the way you do, and I can face anything. Oh, and plenty of hugs. I love hugs off you." Just like his stock of bad jokes, I know this response by rote as well. He does crack occasionally, this steely youth I love more than anyone else in my life, including my own parents. And, when his darkest thoughts surface, he will always seek me out and tell me what they are, candour that I am eternally grateful for. I have grown better at the following sequence in the last year or two. I incline my head, lean back on the sofa and open my arms. He will then rest his head on my chest, I will envelop him with enough firmness to ensure my masculinity whilst not crushing him, and we will sit like that for five minutes or an hour. That is our sequence. It is an effective sequence. And it proves so again.

"What are your plans this weekend?" I ask after we part from our embrace some fifteen minutes later and resume watching television. There is now a documentary on the Bermuda Triangle showing. Dick, slouched back against the sofa, shrugs haphazardly.

"Alfie says I can go to the movies and the park, but I can't rollerblade or show off. It hardly seems worth it."

"It is just a precaution. Will you go?"

"I guess. I'd only be bored otherwise. What are your plans?" He asks, shifting his position until he is leaning back against the arm of the sofa and his socked feet are in my lap. I do not mind.

"I have a luncheon with some of Wayne Enterprises' clients at the golf club tomorrow. You're welcome to join me if you'd like." I say, folding my arms. He actually looks away from the screen at this invitation.

"Can we play a round?" He checks with hopeful eyes. He need not worry about being denied: I hate attending these luncheons alone. The clients in question are terribly dull individuals, even by corporate standards.

"As long as you do not go full-blooded for every drive, it is a distinct possibility. We could play four-ball unless you want to go for individual glory." I tell him. Dick scoffs derisively.

"Not if I'm against you. You drive off the tee further than Tiger Woods. Say we can be partners and I'll play four-ball."

"Say you'll be your usual charming self and I'll say we can team-up on the golf course." I counter. He emphatically nods his head.

"Deal. Look, um, I'm sorry for this morning...and going dark on you just now. It wasn't what I had in mind." I rest a hand on what I judge to be the less damaged of his shins – his left – and squeeze it as softly as possible.

"Don't apologise for being human, Dick. Underneath the surface, we all are. Especially me." I tell him with a smile he shares.

"In what way are you human?" He challenges.

"Because I love you more than words could ever describe. And here is some proof..." I steady myself, consider the ramifications of what I am about to do and then simply speak. "What kind of shorts do clouds wear?" The boy's smile grows into a full-blown grin of white teeth. This is one of his favourites. He shrugs, wanting me to say the punchline as well as the set-up. I sigh. "Thunderwear." He offers a brief round of applause.

"Okay, I'm sold. You love me very much." He says before turning his attentions back on the television. I do the same. "Have you been to the Bermuda Triangle before?"

"Yes. I have flown over it before in a light aircraft from the Florida Keys."

"And, is it as dangerous as this narrator's making it out to be?"

"There were some difficulties with the onboard instruments and compass, but nothing that could not be overcome. It is too large an area to be circumvented by ships because of superstition, and many of the disappearances attributed to the triangle did not take place within its boundaries."

"That's not the way this guy is harping on about it. He's said 'inescapable' and 'devil's sea' like five times each already. Hasn't it just started?"

"It is clearly a documentary in name only. I enjoy things like this."

"Yeah, me too. Hey, want to watch the one about the Moon Landing Conspiracies afterwards?"

"Absolutely."


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: Set a few months after the last chapter. Bruce has a mission, Dick has a party and both wind up in bed together, although not really by choice. Bruce's POV.**

 **Please read and review.**

 **Enjoy**

 **Heat 5 - Sionis**

 **Bruce**

Roman Sionis, a.k.a. the Black Mask, does not engage in tropes. He is a gangster first and an oddity second. While there is a certain element of pathos about him, common to so many of my adversaries, Sionis distinguishes himself by one trait. He is not insane. And, regardless of underworld rumours, he is not delusional either. There is always a reason for his actions. That is why I am struggling to discern method in his latest act of attrition. He has taken hostages. Not from a rival gang. Not from his turbulent past. Just ordinary people. He is threatening to kill all _twenty_ of them, unless I go to a given address by an appointed time. None of these actions fit his profile. He is concerned with business, not showmanship. It makes him logical, something I am always grateful for in a world of misfits.

Dick is at a friend's sixteenth birthday party this evening. Another one. News of this hostage situation has not broken to the media yet. Sionis made the call to Jim personally at the precinct. I then responded to the bat-signal. It seemed unnecessary to drag the boy into this situation. I already know this is a trap, one meant solely for me. Although Dick would be useful, I am confident I can solve this scenario alone. GCPD are on stand-by as I approach the address. The instant I identify it as an old meat-packing factory, I know the night will be long.

There are no guards protecting the main entrance. There are no snipers on the adjacent rooves. There is no indication my progress into the factory will be stopped at all. I suppose this is a private invitation. Still, I expected a test of some description to meet my arrival. I make a sweep around the building. All other entry points are locked or secured, even those on the roof. All windows are barricaded with thick wood or metal sheeting. The structure is essentially sealed. I anticipate that, once I am inside, the main entrance will be secured as well. I consider options.

While it is clear nobody can see into the building, an absence of CCTV suggests nobody can see out of the factory either. There is little value in not having Jim and the might of the GCPD here, forming a perimeter and cordon. However, the factory is vast. It would require substantial manpower to form even a basic cordon. These are resources a city this size cannot afford to have stand idle for hours. I expect my communications to be scrambled once I enter, cutting me off from all support. I check the time. Three minutes. I have only three minutes before Sionis' time-limit expires. I must make a decision now.

I go inside.

It happens once I have advanced more than five metres from the entrance. I hear the sound in time to take cover behind a stack of wooden crates. A moment later, a deafening roar and fireball rattles the building to its foundations. Remote explosive charges. The sound was the single audible tone these charges emit before detonation. It is essentially the 'fire' command. Judging from the violence of the tremors, decibel level of the explosion and intensity of the heat, there were at least six charges planted. I emerge unscathed to find the entrance now barricaded by what appears to be intentionally placed debris. Support struts. Large-scale machinery. It is impossible to move by hand, meaning I am sealed in, as expected. I advance forwards.

I catch the muzzle flash in time to duck a headshot from a high vantage-point. Knowing more shots are coming, I drop a smoke pellet and retreat to a dark corner. When no further shots ring out, it strengthens the notion that my assailant is using a high-powered sniper rifle and is waiting for a target to present itself. I wonder if they have a spotter. By now, the smoke has swelled sufficiently to blanket most of the immediate space. A quick survey of the gantry above me shows it to be in a poor state of disrepair. I follow it path around the room until I am certain I am looking at a support strut below the shooter's position. This is the safest method of combatting the threat.

It takes less than five seconds for me to fire my grapnel and hook it around the strut. Once content it is taut, I brace my body and pull the line towards me. I hear it groan just before that whole section of the gantry collapses to the ground. There are no screams, only an audible gasp of surprise. I step out cautiously. The room is quiet again. When I inspect the remains of the gantry, I find only one unconscious body. Their injuries are not life-threatening, although one leg does appear to be broken. I retrieve the sniper rifle and examine it. It is an M39 Enhanced Marksman Rifle, formerly used by the United States Marine Corps. Strictly speaking, it is a marksman rifle, not a sniper rifle. Judging from the number of notches on the stock, this weapon has been used extensively. I count thirty-nine notches, indicating thirty-nine confirmed kills. Mercenaries. Black Mask is using mercenaries. Interesting.

As soon as I enter the shop floor, I find myself surrounded by the worst kind of mercenaries...

Good ones.

Copperhead and Cheshire, branded as the world's deadliest assassins, flank me on either side whilst Floyd Lawton, Deadshot, stands directly to my front. Behind me is an unwelcome surprise of both Waylon Jones and Slade Wilson – Killer Croc and Deathstroke. Also present are at least another dozen armoured and well-equipped soldiers of fortune, all their faces hidden. Sionis must have paid serious money to bankroll this collection of scum. I no longer believe there are any hostages within this structure. I am also content that whatever trap Sionis had planned, has now been sprung. This is the scope of his idea – lock me in a building with twenty first-class mercenaries and let them pull me apart. I am somewhat disappointed he does not have the guts to face me himself, but comforted by the fact I will lay hands on him before the night is over.

None of the mercenaries have moved towards me or instigated any form of aggression. I already know it is not out of their sense of fair play. They are waiting for something, a signal or an instruction, to attack me. Overhead, an intercom speaker crackles into life.

 _"Sure, you've already sussed what this is, Bat-freak, but let me explain anyway."_ Sionis' voice says as I slowly appraise my audience for viable weaknesses. Croc is not much of an issue. Neither is Slade. I have fought and beaten them enough times to know they have nothing in their arsenal to surprise me. Copperhead and Cheshire are a different proposition. I have only limited experience and knowledge of both assassins. Poison is one of their primary tools of business, meaning I must be careful not to get cut on my face. Lawton is likely the best shot here, as he is most places he goes. I need to remain out of his line-of-sight if I am to stand a chance of disabling him. _"Each one of these fine exponents of murder and mayhem has paid the hefty price of one target each to be here tonight for a delightful winner-takes-all agreement. Basically, Batman, the one who kills you, takes home the money for all twenty contracts. You're probably asking why they all agreed to risk their money tonight, given all their contracts run more than a million dollars each. That's because I'll double the total purse. Fifty million dollars to the winner. And they only have to kill you. Their contracts are already dead, courtesy of yours truly. No distractions then. No doubts. Just a dead bat. Have a nice night."_

Twenty people. Black Mask has just admitted to murdering twenty people in cold blood. I should not be surprised, but I am. I should not allow this to colour my treatment of him once business is concluded here, but it will. Twenty breaks seems fair, especially in exchange for taking twenty lives. Perhaps fifty. Maybe more. Whatever the number I choose, it will require a full-body cast. Right now, I must dispatch what I count as nineteen dangerous individuals. This cannot be achieved from my current grounded position. I need a high vantage-point. As soon as someone moves a fraction-of-an-inch towards me, I drop a flashbang to blind everyone before firing my grapnel and escaping to the rafters. Once there, I drop two smoke pellets and two CS gas grenades simultaneously to blanket all of them in a choking, blinding cloud of black smoke. I switch to thermal, don my respirator and drop down on Croc from a height of thirty feet, knocking him to the ground. This will not be sufficient, especially when Slade narrowly misses my head with his katana.

The cloud is still providing cover though. I have control. I aim to incapacitate as many as possible and utilise every projectile, explosive and trick in my utility belt to achieve this. The big hitters in this group are the only ones who can provide any resistance after being electrocuted with fifty-thousand volts from a shock batarang or scorched by explosive gel. factoring in snapped collarbones – and two broken arms in Lawton's case – I manage to overcome more than half their number in less than four minutes. When it becomes clear that the remaining contingent are too much to surmount without an advantage, I drop another flashbang, retreat a safe distance and throw a modified concussion grenade, the latest prototype from Wayne Tech labs. It is apparently five times as effective as its military-grade equivalent, which I use normally. I am impressed when it knocks out Croc and disorientates Slade. I did not think either of them would be caught off-guard by the ploy.

I am able to render Slade unconscious, but only at the risk being of cut by Copperhead or Cheshire, both of whom are proving persistent. I duck and weave a total of sixteen swipes at the exposed part of my jaw, as well as twelve attempted strikes at my abdomen from Slade, who also proves as tenacious as ever in defeat. As soon as I deliver the uppercut to incapacitate him, Copperhead and Cheshire attack in tandem, forcing me back with their ferocity of their assault. I bob, parry, slip and block over ten strikes from each of them whilst waiting for the opening I require.

My suit is cut, then cut deeper and then deeper still by their knife collections, until my bare flesh is eventually exposed halfway down my midriff. Their strategy is clear, but I cannot find enough room to manoeuvre. I know one or two more lucky strikes will be enough to poison me. They are probably willing to share the bounty, now that they are the only ones left in contention. Either that, or it is a temporary alliance to dispatch me, at which point they will turn on one another like the animals they are. Copperhead lunges a fraction too far forward. It is enough.

I grab her wrist, twist it violently and then force her into Cheshire's path by swinging her in an arc. The other assassin embeds her knife in Copperhead's shoulder, at which point I deliver a spinning side-kick to Cheshire's solar plexus. She flies back several feet and I take the opportunity to deliver a blow to the back of Copperhead's skull before throwing her to one side. Fortunately for Copperhead, she is immune to the venom coating Cheshire's blades. She would die violently otherwise. Cheshire, unsurprisingly, springs back to her feet. She produces another blade from her boot and prepares to launch a fresh assault. I wait. This was not the night I had envisioned. Not by far. She charges forwards. I wait. She is now within striking range. I wait. She swings horizontally and then tries to ram the length of the blade into my exposed stomach on successive strikes. I counter this with both forearms, forcing her face forward. I then smash my elbow straight across it, likely fracturing her orbital socket in addition to clearly breaking her nose. Somehow, she is still standing and still has possession of her blade.

Enough.

She swings again, but has had her vision severely compromised by her injuries. I parry and then deliver an uppercut to conclude matters here. I check each of the fallen for proof of life. All of them have a discernible pulse. None of their injuries are life-threatening. It is far more than any of them deserve, given their histories. I properly secure Croc and Slade, as well as Copperhead and Cheshire with various kinds of restraints. In order to keep Croc subdued for safer handling, I administer the most powerful sedative I have at my disposal. The battle was only quick because I was angry. Had I been myself, the fight would have been longer, but the methods used to disable the mercenaries would have been far less damaging. I privately chide myself for finishing so many opponents with such brutal and unnecessary strikes. Some here will now walk with a permanent limp. Copperhead will have extensive nerve damage in her shoulder. I may have blinded Slade and I doubt Cheshire will ever look the same, even with good quality cosmetic surgery. Now for Black Mask.

Escaping the factory initially proves a challenge. As I suspected, all possible entry points have been sealed from the ground to the rafters. But, as usual, there is always sewer access. Entry down to the sewer tunnels lies in the basement where the access point has been blocked with a re-purposed desk, likely taken from the foreman's office. I kick it out of the way and then climb down into the tunnel. I know the sewer network well. I have studied them meticulously in my battles with Killer Croc and those who believe I will not follow them into such filth and grime. It takes less than ten minutes to navigate to my desired location underneath the old Janus Cosmetics building where Roman Sionis' ruined his family fortune with bad business. I enter the building, grab what I came for, and then leave.

The high-rise offices that Black Mask operates his criminal empire out of are designed to be impenetrable to anything short of a nuclear blast. In my present mood, I am a greater threat than anything the world's military could provide. Both guards watching the elevator learn this first-hand, suffering a broken jaw and ten rib fractures between them as I begin my ascent to the penthouse. As expected, the elevator carriage is halted less than two minutes into my journey. No matter. I force my way onto the top of the carriage itself and then fire my grapnel upwards. It takes eight complete cycles of launching and retracting the cable, but eventually I reach the doors for penthouse access. I have no doubt my imminent arrival is expected by Sionis and his men. I know they will be ready to shoot on sight. I also know my utility belt is empty after the battle with the mercenaries. Black Mask will probably guess the same.

This leaves me with a bitter choice. I can attempt to gain access to the penthouse now and risk almost certain death, or I can leave to restock my supplies and then attempt entry through another part of the building's superstructure and risk coming up empty. I know if I leave now, this elevator will be strictly controlled and protected by Sionis' entire army. I will not be allowed to get this far again, not without greater cost. I close my eyes and breathe deeply. I need him to tell me where the bodies are, so their families can bury them. I can only accomplish that if I physically break him.

I decide to cut my losses. Literally. With my miniature blowtorch, I sever the steel cables holding the carriage and watch it plummet untold hundreds of feet down to the bottom of the shaft, where it has no doubt made a hellacious mess. Now his only escape point is the stairwell and roughly fifty minutes of continuous walking. I swoop down four floors and jimmy the doors open to an empty corridor. My attention drifts to the fire alarm. Perhaps...perhaps there is another way to draw him out of his stronghold. I pull the alarm and wait by the stairwell door.

Fifteen minutes pass into obscurity, but still Sionis does not present himself. None of his men do, not even to investigate. He will not be drawn out tonight, it seems. I will have to return tomorrow. Dejected, but unbowed, I force open the window and glide out into the night air. I radio Jim for pickup at the factory once I am back in the car and heading home. I advise him to bring several ambulances and specialist teams to extract and detain the mercenaries. I tell him he needs a bulldozer to gain entry. When he asks about Sionis, I tell him what I heard. I tell him the situation at the high-rise and that, once I have had sufficient time to plan and prepare, I will extract Sionis myself before delivering him to the precinct.

When he asks about the bodies, I fall silent. It takes several minutes for me to gather myself to inform him I have yet to locate them. He says he will try to get information from the mercenaries. It is unlikely he will obtain any information from them, much less something of importance. Still, he might as well try. There is little else to lose at this point. Everybody worth saving is already dead. I do not communicate these thoughts. I end the conversation then and there. It is only now I realise how much punishment I took in the factory, how many hard shots I absorbed. Those four minutes of wanton combat are definitely the source of my discomfort. My adrenaline has taken my body as far as it can possibly go. Appraising my condition now, it is questionable whether I could have withstood another prolonged battle. That does not sit well with me. No matter the odds, twenty minutes of combat is only twenty minutes. I could have fought on. I _should_ have fought on, despite the circumstances. All in all, I am thoroughly ashamed of myself.

I arrive back at the cave to silence. Alfred could not have known I would be dragged into such deep waters this evening. I told him it was a routine patrol, and that he could fully enjoy his evening, without Dick or I to antagonise him. My limbs feel uncharacteristically heavy and feeble as I exit the vehicle park and mount the stairs to the armoury. I pull off my utility belt and marvel at almost a dozen empty pouches where my arsenal is stored. All supplies exhausted. For twenty minutes? I sigh in tossing it to one side. My gaze crosses to the fully-stocked belts hanging on my right. I could go back now. I could take a fresh belt and return immediately. It is only one a.m. There is time to fix this. I almost grab one, but refrain. No. I am... unfit to return to the penthouse. Even thinking it causes me pain.

I remove my boots, cowl, gauntlets and cape. All of them are heavily scratched by various blades and what may be bullet ricochets. Twenty minutes. I shed my outer layers before peeling off my survival suit that forms the last barrier between my bare skin and everything else. It is heavy with sweat, almost as if I had been swimming in it. I am growing less pleased by the minute. I shower in the cave, pull on my dressing gown and slippers, and then ascend the stairs. Each step is a test of wills. The relief when I reach the library is palpable. I hate it.

The house is dark, but my mood is darker. We were made for one another, it seems. I wish it were an ironic statement, but of course, it isn't. We really do belong together, united by shadow and failure. I am about to tackle the grand staircase when I hear something banging in the kitchen. I hang my head and sigh. Again? Again, with this stupidity? I wander into the kitchen and find the boy cooking bacon. I smell it before he turns around to confirm my suspicions. He has been drinking beer. And smoking pot. And has run back here from the city...as he did six weeks ago at another friend's sixteenth birthday party. None of this would be annoying if it were not for his activities when he returns here from such an occasion. He tracks mud through the house and burns something in a pan, clogging up the whole house with the smell for days afterwards. This has happened twice before. If I had not walked in, it probably would have happened again.

"I'm not..."

"Save it, Dick." I snap turning off the stove. I take the pan off the hob and place it on the countertop. The bacon is just the right side of crispy, how he likes it. I turn around without looking at him. "Don't cook anything else. Eat your food and then go to bed. You can clean up all your mess in the morning." I am through the doorway before he grabs my wrist.

"Are you okay?" He asks in noticeably slurred words. I sigh.

"What do you think? You've been an idiot again, after you promised you wouldn't be."

"No, not that. I know what _that_ sounds like. That wasn't how you sounded just now." He says. I frown at his perception of my mood, even under the influence of drink and recreational drugs. I turn to face him. His eyes are both somewhat red and unsteady, but his sincerity to know the truth is clear. I am about to give an answer when the boy's eyes noticeably widen. Before I can understand his surprise, his other hand has pulled my dressing gown partially open at the top, showcasing the wealth of fresh bruises that span the entire length and breadth of my torso. "What—what the hell happened to you tonight?" He looks back into my eyes. "That doesn't look like routine patrol."

"It... was a bad night. I need...sleep. If you'll excuse me." I begin to turn only for both his hands to fluidly move to my shoulders to softly discourage me. He furrows his brow.

"How many died?" He asks me, demonstrating his ability to read me exceeds even Alfred's at times. I clench my jaw.

"I am going to bed. I will see you in the morning." I tell him firmly whilst shrugging his hands off. I turn my back on him for the second time. "Take a shower. You smell disgusting."

I am in bed. It has been forty minutes since I walked away from the boy. I am still not in the mood to entertain sleep. I stare at the ceiling and think of twenty bodies rotting in the sun, their eyes being pecked at by crows. Then I think of twenty bodies rotting in a damp basement, their soft tissues being gnawed at by rats...

"Sorry I'm late." I hear Dick's voice mutter as he unceremoniously interrupts my thoughts by clambering into my bed, "I fell asleep in the shower for like five minutes or something." Now he smells like that mango shampoo he enjoys so much. I get very well acquainted with it when he sticks his head directly under my chin and on my chest. I grit my teeth at the sudden weight on an especially sore part of my sternum. His arm snakes over my torso, allowing me to determine his nudity from the waist up by the feel of armpit hair on my side. I cannot help emitting an actual growl at this drunken intrusion. He jerks his head up. "Was that a bear? Do we have bears in the house?"

"Get. Out." I tell him. He responds by putting his head back down.

"No. You're not okay to be alone."

"Dick, I have not had a good night. The last thing I want is some drunk, half-baked sixteen-year-old boy hugging me in bed. Kindly leave now." I say whilst biting my tongue. I feel him settle down further. The hair is beginning to tickle my skin.

"What happened? Please tell me."

"If you do not leave right now, I am grounding you until graduation." I warn only for him to audible scoff at the threat.

"Go ahead, you big girl. I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what happened to make you go into ultimate Bruce mode." Ultimate Bruce mode is the name Dick has given to the state I present when I am at my darkest. Normally it is after failure of a particularly debilitating sort. He knows I do not emerge from such a place lightly. I am certain he also knows I do not discuss it with anybody. His behaviour is beyond bold.

"Continue as you are and I will do worse than ground you for life. I will..." I struggle to think of anything more discouraging and settle on what is definitely a mistake to articulate. "I will disown you." This prompts a reaction. Dick slowly gets up onto his knees, reaches across me and turns on the bedside lamp. Blue eyes regard me in disbelief.

"You'd rather disown...the only person you've ever let into your head...than talk about a bad mission? Are you fucking insane?" His cursing shocks me. I know he swears, but I have never had him direct such foul language at me. It must be the alcohol. Or the marijuana. Or both. I briefly glance down and am relieved to find he is at least wearing pyjama bottoms as I am.

"This is not an appropriate venue for this conversation. We can talk about this tomorrow..."

"There is no venue! Because you never talk about it! You just act like a bastard for a few days and then pretend like nothing's happened! And you expect me and Alfie to do the same. If you love me as much as you say you do, if you love me as much as _I_ love you, you'll tell me what's wrong. We both know I'm the only thing that makes you feel better. You can screw supermodels and ballerinas until your balls fall off, but they'll never love you like me. No-one will. Ever. But, if you want me to go..." He shifts his weight and unsteadily prepares to get off the bed until I put a hand on his shoulder. I squeeze the warm flesh softly for several minutes before venturing to speak. I clear my throat.

"You're not grounded."

He looks at me sideways on and sighs. "I didn't...I didn't get into your bed because _I_ needed affection this time. I did it because...you looked like you needed me to love you. You looked so alone in the kitchen, I mean...I'm drunk off my ass, and it scared me shitless. Like you might..."

"I won't. I promise."

"Are you going to tell me about it?"

I nod my head slowly. I watch him wipe away what might have been a tear before he returns to his position underneath the covers. I turn out the reading light and hold him. As I recount tonight's events in as much detail as possible, my hand automatically combs through still damp hair. I think he might be sleeping halfway through, but am proven incorrect by his constant wincing whenever I mention being hit or almost stabbed with poisonous knives. When I finish speaking and lapse into silence, I hear him suck his teeth.

"That does sound like a really bad night to be Batman."

"I just keep thinking of those bodies rotting."

"You know it's not your fault, right? I mean, Black Mask iced all twenty of them before you even got to the factory. And those mercs were gonna kill them anyway, whether you were there or not."

"I still feel responsible though. I feel as though...my reputation forced Sionis to recruit such high-end scum. If I wasn't around..."

"If you weren't around, Black Mask would run this city and twenty more assholes would be running around shooting people for money." Dick remarks. I allow myself to smirk.

"You make it sound simple."

"It _is_ simple. Think about it. Those twenty people were going to die anyway. If Black Mask hadn't drawn them all to you, they'd be ready to kill another twenty people. Yeah, there's twenty bodies out there, but they're going to be the only twenty bodies you need to find and investigate. Trust me, lesser of a million evils in this city." I know he's right. If he's drunk, and stoned, but still knows where the light at the end of the tunnel is, he must be right. I sigh lethargically.

"I will...concede the argument to you. How much did you have to drink?"

"Like...five? I think I almost got to five-and-a-half, but I kept getting up to pee."

"And...to smoke?"

"I had one, and then whatever was left of another one, like an inch."

"Did you enjoy your night?"

"Yeah. At least three girls wanted to get with me."

"Then why didn't you stay?" I ask to prompt his first sigh for quite some time. I am still stroking his hair. It stops me thinking about corpses.

"Because...I thought you might need me. I don't know why. I guess...sometimes I feel like I owe you, for all the times you've been there for me. I know I'm weird. I know most guys my age don't jump into bed with their dads, even when they're drunk or stoned, or both. But most guys' dads don't fight off twenty mercenaries and then storm a crime lord's penthouse to find out the location of twenty strangers' corpses. I figure it kind of makes it all okay. This right here, this is a good outcome for us. At least we understand each other, even if no-one else does." When I feel him sink down into my chest this time, I know he is actually preparing to sleep. I have no idea what time it is now, or for how long we have talked. I only know I am finally ready to sleep now too.

"Will you help me find the corpses tomorrow night?" I ask, closing my eyes. Dick yawns before lightly patting my side, now he is vaguely aware of how bruised I am.

"Sure thing, Boss-man. Twenty, right?"

"Right. You don't owe me anything, Dick."

"Yeah I do. It's cool if I pay you back in a combination of love, hugs and bad jokes, right?" He says with his usual charm. I allow myself to smile.

"As long as it's not money. I've had quite enough of that."

"Hey, Bruce?"

"Yes?"

"What do you call a pile of cats?"

"A...meowtain."

"Yeah, you do. Goodnight, Bruce."

"Goodnight, Dick."


End file.
